This document is the seventh issue of "The Sunday Night Black & White" magazine. It includes contributions from several writers and artists. The table of contents lists pieces such as "Mixing Metaphorically into a Veil" by Anjalee Nadarajan, "Heaven is Harriett" by Alicia Morris, "Scout" by Wyatt Lowry, and "Everything in Piles" by Olivia Mae Sinclair. It also contains an untitled piece by S.C. about drinking and eovuka. The magazine was printed by Pindot Press and has a circulation of 50 copies.

2. Directors Marc LeSage - Ryan Joseph Little
Editor Richard Clarke
Contributors Alicia Morris - Anjalee Nadarajan -
Olivia Mae Sinclair - S.C. - Wyatt Lowry
Writing - Photography - Illustration
THE SUNDAY NIGHT BLACK & WHITE ISSUE SEVEN

3. 3
THE SUNDAY NIGHT BLACK & WHITE ISSUE SEVEN
you’re human, you’re beautiful
and you deserve to be loved
and anyone who says otherwise
can go fuck themselves

4. 4 5
Mixing Metaphorically into a Veil
Anjalee Nadarajan
SUBMISSIONS AND
PICTURES OF YOUR DAD TO:
SUNDAYNIGHTBOMBERS@GMAIL.COM
THE SUNDAY NIGHT BLACK & WHITE ISSUE SEVEN
Scout
Wyatt Lowry
Heaven is Harriett
Alicia Morris
Everything in Piles
Olivia Mae Sinclair
Drinking and eovuka
S.C.
CONTENTS
THE SUNDAY NIGHT BLACK & WHITE ISSUE SEVEN

5. 6 7
MIXING METAPHORICALLY INTO A VEIL ANJALEE NADARAJANMIXING METAPHORICALLY INTO A VEIL ANJALEE NADARAJAN
The YouTube beauty machines leash in their cumbrance of lash
Your lips—red lip—plum lip—autumn—summer—supersized sucking
Traction—fit for remembering the fit of a member,
Remembering the somersault splash of a protein dash—
Saved from the drain—hydrating as God intended the skin,
Problematic in its acreage, pores—disaster nodes
Unalleviated by the remedies for red spots—
Dark spots—circles—sag and swizzle—discolouration—hair
Testament to testosterone, the ugliness of man,
The excretion, bloodborne mess, the nightly drool, all of you.
I.
Mixing Metaphorically Into a Veil

6. 8 9
MIXING METAPHORICALLY INTO A VEIL ANJALEE NADARAJANMIXING METAPHORICALLY INTO A VEIL ANJALEE NADARAJAN
You, of all, in spite of the jizzle, the jilt and tickle,
Despite the lack of a satisfying conclusion, you
Seek exclusion from the effluvial concerns of others.
You, you ransomed mind, you stolen berth—you cannot dwell
long
On the shortcomings, for the heart knows the shortness of
breath
Resulting from a quick hug changed to a quick tug and swallow.
Attraction resides in the strip between caring and none.
In need of respite from the cares, sorrows of thrifted youth,
Retraining the mind to reframe, to halt the old refrain,
Remains of the gainsaid waning day. Turn on the ring light.
II.
Light rings the on-turn, off-turn ramp—the roadside rating show
Must go on, nonetheless—for, after all, what else remains?
Profusions paid down below—praise and prattle—alternating
Currents—to condone or condemn the vainglory of she
Who has it all—she, of the sparkling wit, the nervous tic
Endearing to all—for she is relatable—she
Makes do with summertime spoils—offering sunnyside smiles
Whether up or down the arrows go, weathering the peaks and plummets
Of popularity plundered in depths of wintertime.
Her treasure now lies—another YouTube beauty machine.
III.

7. 10 11
MIXING METAPHORICALLY INTO A VEIL ANJALEE NADARAJAN MIXING METAPHORICALLY INTO A VEIL ANJALEE NADARAJAN
Sometimes, when, in a fit of short-lived self-confidence, one
texts the boy one’s been eying from the corners of corridors, which
results in his invariable confusion as to why one’s texting him in
the first place, one’s self-doubt and sense of committing a faux pas
burgeon like the pop-up windows that replicate into existence when
one inadvertently clicks anywhere other than the ‘Play’ symbol on
a streaming site, until one finds oneself ordering something far
too sugary from the Starbucks all the while shivering with anxiety,
thereby prompting the nice barista to ask, “What’s wrong?”
One then finds oneself explaining to her, in far too much detail,
the situation until one remembers the old adage, ‘Show don’t tell,’
impelling, therefore, one to show her the texts in question, desiring
her opinion as a disinterested observer.
After she mulls it over and says that one’s “fine,” the palpable sense
of relief at not being entirely abnormal relaxes one to the point of
attempting to pay for a second time, at which point another barista
personally escorts one, afflicted as one is, to the pick-up area to pick
up one’s needless drink, during the pick up of which, one makes
eye contact with a boy who, looking strikingly similar to one’s ex,
causes one to growl to oneself an “ugh” that, being not quite as quiet
as one had hoped it would be, results in an involuntary frown from
the boy who diverts his gaze from one’s face and stares instead at his
phone, an apt ending, one thinks, that renders events a closed loop,
homotopic to every other closed loop resulting from other situations
that had started as one’s had.
L’Anxiété
(It’s Better in French)

8. 12 13
HEAVEN IS HARRIETT ALICIA MORRISHEAVEN IS HARRIETT ALICIA MORRIS

9. 14 15
HEAVEN IS HARRIETT ALICIA MORRIS HEAVEN IS HARRIETT ALICIA MORRIS

10. 16 17
HEAVEN IS HARRIETT ALICIA MORRISHEAVEN IS HARRIETT ALICIA MORRIS

11. 18 19

12. 20 21
I’ve never seen trees like this.
You can tell by the sun.
SCOUT WYATT LOWRYSCOUT WYATT LOWRY

13. 22 23
Look out!
SCOUT WYATT LOWRYSCOUT WYATT LOWRY

14. 24 25
SCOUT WYATT LOWRYSCOUT WYATT LOWRY
Where are the other beavers?

15. 26 27
Freeze dirt bag!
Here I am, I found her!
Keep Looking.
SCOUT WYATT LOWRYSCOUT WYATT LOWRY

16. 28 29
SCOUT WYATT LOWRYSCOUT WYATT LOWRY
I call top bunk.
Sleeping here forever.

17. 30 31
EVERYTHING IN PILES OLIVIA MAE SINCLAIR EVERYTHING IN PILES OLIVIA MAE SINCLAIR
Piles of sexts sent, one after
another and another.
Piles of clothes on the ground,
both mine and his.
Piles of empty vodka bottles
lined up on the nightstand,
stained with lipstick.
Piles of condom wrappers,
ripped and torn in the sheets.
Piles of tissue paper, damped
with thick fluid.
Piles and piles of bodies.
Sleeping men, laying beside
me in bed
As I am filled with
Piles of regret

18. 32 33
EVERYTHING IN PILES OLIVIA MAE SINCLAIR
An Ideal Sunday Afternoon:
Drink AT LEAST one eight ounce can of Redbull.
Give incredible oral sex for roughly forty minutes,
make sure to drool
A LOT.
Imagine your self worth is
completely defined by this one sexual act.
OLIVIA MAE SINCLAIR
ONE HUNDRED FORTY POUNDS
LOTS
PURPLE
EVERYTHING IN PILES OLIVIA MAE SINCLAIR
My sex is female.
I enjoy sex.
He, sexed me for hours.
The sex was good.
IT WAS SEXY.
HE ASKED “WAS THE SEX GOOD?”
I SAID “IT WAS GOOD SEX.”
HE SAID “LETS SEX AGAIN.”
I SAID “OKAY”
SO WE SEXED AGAIN
AND AGAIN
AND AGAIN
AND WHEN THE SEX STOPPED
I SAID “THAT WAS GOOD SEX”
HE SAID “I KNOW, I AM GOOD AT SEX”
I ASKED “DO YOU THINK IM GOOD AT SEX”
HE SAID “YES, YOU ARE SEXY;
give me oral sex”
I said “Yes”
And sexed his cock with my mouth.

19. 34 35
DRINKING AND EOVUKA S.C. DRINKING AND EOVUKA S.C.
Do unto death as
he has become to you
The body and
Blood of tritan
The Romantic Fiction
Historic case upper case
monumeral mistery muse finds solemn, tragic, dirge
in unknown tome, turns a static signal into presience
and finds meaning in an image
...what is it
Romantic Fiction

20. 36 37
DRINKING AND EOVUKA S.C.
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DRINKING AND EOVUKA S.C.

21. 38 39
DRINKING AND EOVUKA S.C.
mater
~
the deep
the valley
the cleft
the cave
hell
death
the cloak*
and
the grave
clout fish
trout dish
flesh womb
go to rot your skin in piss color
tri light
DRINKING AND EOVUKA S.C.
the hate sign
trusts conor
to sign off his shift
to flip the switch
**^****^``*`
truncated by omnipresence
a vertical heroin glance
*A* Slut of the Century
A short bread crisp with,
black
chocolate
sugar
coffin
glycerin Robin and Charls
Summon Bek and Lucian
theres nothing keeping me warm tonight
no dark ness or light
just static screen
__feed
the former queen
of ADesolator
im working for the akubulahga
makes every day like vasoline
aki swooma;ah
working for the akibualahaga
rum and sugar crisp
keep me rich
off desert crisp my own perosterd
eovuka

22. 40 41
DRINKING AND EOVUKA S.C.DRINKING AND EOVUKA S.C.
my own pirroette is a breaking heart dance ballerina dance
you mustent want for dance a dancers part
work ballerina $$$
and just ignore the chair thats simply in the second row
this is your moment girl
lthough i=hes plotting out there
one youve sang
a man must wait his past
i gues that your concern
we live and learn a love is gone
ballerina gone
you cant afford a backward glance
dance on and on
a thousand people here
have come to see the show
and round and round you go
so ballerina go
dance dance...,.,.
rvrything is concerned
Dance Ballerina Dance,
as transcribed by a drunk Idiot:
once youve said
his love must wait his turn
you want to play instead
i guess thas your concern
we live and learn
and love is gone
ballerina run
you cant afford a backward glance
dance on and on
a thousand people here
have come to see the show
and round and round you go
so ballerina go
dance dancedance dancedance dance...,.,.

23. 42
EVERYBODY LOVES THE TASTE OF THE SUNDAY NIGHT BLACK & WHITE

24. Covers Marc LeSage - Ryan Joseph Little
Printed by Pindot Press - Oakville, ON
sundaynightbombers.com
@sundaynightbombers
first edition of 50
THE SUNDAY NIGHT BLACK & WHITE ISSUE SEVEN